


That Ridiculous Xeno Crossover PWP

by Gamin Assassin (hellkitty)



Category: Aliens (1986), Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Crossover, F/M, Other, Sticky Sex, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-25
Updated: 2011-10-25
Packaged: 2017-10-24 22:48:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/268756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/Gamin%20Assassin





	That Ridiculous Xeno Crossover PWP

“What?” Wing jumped, the wing panels twitching behind his back, looking utterly caught out.

“See something?” Vasquez, as usual, spoke with the muzzle of the smartgun. Even here, the setting sun cutting shadows like knifeblades, the evening’s breeze schussing sand lightly over them, she was always fully armed.

“I…think your two companions. They are…interfacing?”

“What?” Vasquez grabbed the binos from around her neck, clambering up the outcrop. Still, somehow, managing the gun. She peered downrange. “Fucking. Dietrich and Hicks. Fucking.”

“Oh. I think it’s the same thing?”

She looked at him. “You fuck.” Right. The idea of a walking computer fucking? Her mind flashed to Bishop and….no. Just no.

Wing looked startled, as though the question were almost too obvious to be asked. “Of course we do.”  
She jerked her head downrange. “Like that.” Not, like, you know, plugging in a cord or something.  
He nodded.

“You get off on watching or something?” What is her life? Asking a robot if he got off on voyeurism? Put a whooooooole new spin on security cameras.

“It…it was rather arousing, yes.” The large black hands wrung, awkwardly. “I…perhaps we have different social taboos?”

“Or perhaps you’re a perv.”

A bit of a hesitation, the gold optics going distant while he searched up some translation. “Or,” he said, “maybe it’s not wrong to find the pleasure of others enjoyable to watch?”

She snorted. “Logic, huh?”

He smiled. “Robot. That’s what we do according to you, right?”

“So what are you?”

“Robot?” The smile softened.

“I mean, boy or girl.”

“Boy or girl?” The gold optics blinked, clearly not understanding the question. Yeah, well, Vasquez was having a hard time believing she was asking a robot if it had a dick.

“What you got?” She reached her free hand between her legs.

A headtilt. “I could show you?”

Fuck. Well. Life couldn’t get much weirder. Should be a fucking recruiting poster: Join the Colonial Marines, see robo-genitals.

Yeah, maybe not. “Let’s see ‘em. It.” Whatever.

Wing dropped to his knees. Probably courtesy, you know, so that it wasn’t right in her face or something. The manners didn’t weird her out: Bishop also had the same kind of slightly uptight courtesy. Was he, ya know, anatomically accurate? She decided she did not want to know. One brain-bruising moment at a time, please.  
The black hands released some hatch on the white armor, and she saw two silver rims. One retracted, with something silver peeking out of it. Wing shrugged, shyly. “I did mention that watching them was arousing?”

“So. Boy.” Or…. “Both?”

“Neither?” Uncomprehending. “All mechs have this equipment.”

Fuck. Vasquez wasn’t cut out to be some sort of cultural ambassador. “All right. Mira.” She shucked the smartgun rig, in one smooth, practiced movement, laying it carefully on the stone beside her, before snatching her belt apart, the buttons of the buttonfly prrrrping open. “Girl.”

 

“You have no spike.”

“Can’t put anything past your giant robot brain,” she said.

“You have a valve?” He stooped lower, peering between her legs, one finger reaching toward, but not quite daring to touch. “Where the spike goes?”

She was so not up to vocabulary. “Yeah. That’s how it works. Boys, girls.”

“How…odd to only have one.” Wing seemed…sad. “I don’t think I could choose.”

“We don’t choose, mi hijo.” She snorted. “Like I’d choose this.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Size, for one thing.”

“More efficient?”

“What?”

“Smaller mechs are often more efficient. Fuel consumption, heat conservation.” He hesitated. “Are you considered attractive, Vasquez?” A slight lilt in the foreign syllables.

She glared. “I don’t give a fuck.”

“…I think you are.” A hesitant smile. “You remind me of someone I knew.”

“Yeah?” She wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or not. She couldn’t imagine it was.

The smile grew sad. “I was more…than a little in love with him.”

“If he’s like me?” She shook her head. “Poor bastard you are.”

“I don’t think so.” The gold optics flickered with mischief. “Do you find me attractive, Vasquez?”

The question made her blink. What? No fucking way. But then…her eyes drifted over to her gun. She certainly loved that thing, the dark metal familiar, comforting, under her hands. And what was Wing but a larger mechanism, one with feelings? She looked up, to see the optic shutters blink, fascinated by the mechanics. “…yeah.”

“Vasquez?” The voice was quiet, like a TV with the volume turned down low, and not like a human whisper at all. “Do you want to fuck with me?”

She almost choked on air. First at what he was asking and then about how he was asking it. Worst pick up line she’d ever heard, sober or drunk. But somehow…she couldn’t say no. “Not even sure it’s possible.”

He nodded . “It is. I’ve worked the ratios.”

Oh, math. How sexy. She felt a grin slide over her mouth. “I’m willing to find out.” She stepped back, shucking her blouse, stripping off her regulation tank top, before bending over to unstrap her boots.

Wing seemed content to watch, studying her bare skin, the way her breasts shifted and moved as she bent, the smooth bunch and swell of her muscles under her skin. She looked up, to see the silver thing—he’d called it a spike—jutting farther from its housing, dripping a clear lubricant. Wing saw the line of her eyes and laughed, embarrassed. It was big but…maybe not too big. She felt her own body respond, heat between her thighs, her nipples, despite the desert heat, growing hard and tight. Fuck. What are you doing, Vasquez. You are not going to fuck a jet. Seriously. What the fuck is wrong with you?

And why the fuck is the idea getting you so damn hot?

She tossed her uniform trousers, sunfaded and soft, on the ground, laying down. The day-warmed sand was like another soft, caressing heat against her back. The setting sun was blotted out by the large shape of Wing, bending over her. Fuck, he was big.

His smile seemed nervous, the gold optics trailing over her body, unsure, but wanting. Even Drake never looked at her like this—fascinated, enthralled. She spread her legs. “You know how to do it?”

He gave a shaky nod, and she felt a juddering puff of air between them. He really was nervous. And for some reason that made it hotter—she felt a quivering tightness in her belly.

“Ready? I will stop if you tell me to,” he said, optics creased with concern.

“Ready. Just do it.”

“Just? It’s supposed to feel good.”

Urgh. There was such a thing as too polite, she decided, hooking a heel around the large silver thigh. “Let’s get to that point, eh?”

He nodded, rocking forward, low to the ground, and she felt the sudden cool wetness of his lubricated spike nosing into her. Oh fuck. He was big. She sucked in a breath as he inched in, the cool metal stretching her as he pushed in. He shivered, pausing. “Warm,” he said, almost gasping.

“Good?”

He nodded. “Different. Hard to describe.” His optics focused on hers. “You?”

“Different.” She managed a smile.

He leaned forward, and she could hear the pistons release, lowering him slowly, pushing the spike farther into her. She released a breath, relaxing, trying to loosen up. He wasn’t too big for her, but he was…goddam big. His spike hit the top and they both gasped, feeling her stretched tight around him. “Good?” he asked.

“Stop asking,” she snapped.

He smiled. “You do remind me of Drift.” His face twitched, one palm on the sandy ground above her head, the other moving between them, to make a stop to prevent him from thrusting in too deeply, as he began moving, slowly, gently, against her. A ridge on the top of his spike slid against her and she found her thighs twitching, wanting to clamp around his broad hips. He gave a soft whimper, head bent, studying her. He shifted his weight for a second, one hand brushing one of her breasts. “These,” he said, “are fascinating.”

“Tits?” She scowled. “Get in my way.”

“They move beautifully,” he returned, watching the liquid motion as they responded to his gentle thrusts. “Is it inappropriate to admire them?”

She pinched her mouth. “No. Some guys, that’s all they think about.”

“Not me,” Wing said, “But they are captivating.” She felt a sudden rush of air down her body, cooler than the desert afternoon, and the tempo of the thrusts hitched up. Still slow, patient, without any urgency, but steady, building. She felt herself clench around him, her entire body beginning to quiver, hanging on  
anticipation. The gentleness balanced the size—if he were any harsher, it would cross the threshold to pain, but the slow tempo let her body adjust around him, shift to make room, being filled and quivering around it.  
It was still…way too fucking intense for conversation. Or for her to really care even if he was just staring at her tits.

“Maybe,” he gasped, surging over her, “I should…stop.”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” she snarled. His spike—whatever—was pushing against her, throbbing, insistent.

“Yes,” he managed, the word sounding squeezed and under pressure, before he arched up, his wings flaring, and she heard a click like a hydraulic failsafe, felt a hard burst of fluid inside her, enough to make her gasp, buckling over, like some kind of pressure hose. Her entire body, her entire attention seemed focused there, the burst of ecstasy over her, inside her.

She fell back, sweating, sand sticking to her shoulders, short hair damp, hands clinging over her flat belly. “Fuck,” she breathed.

“I don’t think you use that word to mean solely interfacing,” Wing said, dropping to his side, after hooking her thigh in front of him. His fingers trailed down her body, the line of her thigh, up her hip, across her belly.

She scrubbed a hand over her face. “Yeah.”

“Was that…comparable?” The wings folded flat against his back again.

A snort into the palm of her hand. Comparable. No fucking way. “Think you kind of ruined me for humans.”

“That…wasn’t my intent.”

“Not a bad thing.” She peeked at him between her fingers. “You always like this?”

“Like what?”

“Nice?” She said it like it was a symptom.

“I try to be.” His fingers circled one breast, then slid up the line of her chest, tracing out her jawline.

“People take advantage of you.” Her mouth hardened.

“Is that so bad?” He shifted, and they both twitched, groaned as the spike edged out of her, followed by a flood of heated fluid.

“Going to get you killed some day.”

The smile grew enigmatic. “It almost has, and I’d rather die living my beliefs.”

“Beliefs shouldn’t make you weak.” Right. Argue philosophy with a robot. A robot you’ve just had sex with.

“Weak.” Wing moved, suddenly, pushing up, over her and for a moment she thought she’d actually offended him. Which would be pretty damn impressive. The gold optics hovered over hers, close enough she could see fine nicks on the surface. “You do remind me of him.” He dropped lower down, planting a kiss—cool and metallic—on her chest, something flicking out to taste the sweat. She felt a prickle, salt-electric, at the touch, which then trailed down her breastbone to circle under one of her heavy breasts, exploring the line between the soft tissue and the hard muscle. He gave a sudden sound, like a hum, the optics dimming, as he slipped lower down until he hovered over her parted legs. He caught her gaze, tipping his head to slide the white plane of his armor down her upraised thigh, optics glinting.

She gasped, his cool metal mouth making contact with her heated body, the heavy, tingling tongue flicking against her, tasting their mingled fluids. “Dios mio,” she breathed, almost afraid to move, as he settled in between her thighs. He licked up her body, tongue finding its way up the narrow channel, flicking over the small nub of swollen flesh, and then down, optics dimming with pleasure. He gave a clicking chirr that shocked against her, diving into the task, probing inside her slowly, delicately, his mouth plates sliding in the slick wetness between them. The nasal of his helm bumped against her. Her entire body began twitching, trembling and she sank her hands, like claws, into the flesh of her thighs, breath hissing through her teeth. He had to know what he was doing, had to know what it was doing to her.

If so, he had fantastic instincts, sending tingling, vibrating waves of sensation through her, while one hand covered the flat of her belly, fingers splayed, brushing the undersides of her breasts, regarding her across the length of her body.

She felt a scream tear from her throat, short nails gouging into her skin hard enough to draw blood, hips bucking up against the cool metal of the mech’s faceplates.

“Fucking Christ!” The voice from the crop of stone startled them both, and she looked up to see Hudson, raising the M41 from where he’d leveled it at her. “Thought something was fucking killing you.” He shook his head, eyes squeezing shut. “Instead I find you getting laid with a fucking robot.”

Vasquez sat up, snatching at her top, jerking it down. “What? Jealous?”

Wing sat back, his knee stabilizers buried in the sand. “We are not exclusive, my kind.”

“Yeah, uh no. Seriously.” His gaze shot to Wing’s open interface hatch, the still half-turgid spike, and shook his head. “Sometimes I fucking wonder about you, Vasquez.”


End file.
